


To The Letter

by blueapplesour



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: First Time, Frottage, Humor, M/M, Shameless Smut, awkward virgins, pre-TS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:40:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28809792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueapplesour/pseuds/blueapplesour
Summary: When Ferdinand switches houses, Edelgard requests that Hubert seduce him back.She doesn't mean it literally.He doesn't know that.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 24
Kudos: 194





	To The Letter

The one time the goddess grants Hubert’s prayers is when Ferdinand von Aegir transfers houses. While the news should have been greeted with a party, and he has no doubt Dorothea would commemorate the joyous occasion with an aria should he ask, instead, he is called in to a tete-a-tete with his lady. 

“Hubert.” Edelgard’s arms were crossed, a small press of worry at her lips. “I’m afraid I have to ask something of you.”

“You know I would do anything.”

The slightest nod of her head is all the approval he needs as she continues. “I’m concerned about Ferdinand’s transfer. As the son of the prime minister, he’s been privy to not a small amount of empire information, and there’s always a risk he’s noticed something that could later compromise us.”

“With all due respect to your forethought, Lady Edelgard, I doubt that very much.” It’s not that Ferdinand isn’t bright; Hubert has argued with him enough to know there is something there behind his candlefire eyes. It’s just that his brightness is that of a theater lamp- turned to illuminate nothing of importance save the stage he creates for himself.

“Still. I would like him back in the Black Eagles. If he won’t be seduced back to us, it could be a problem.”

...seduce von Aeigr. She couldn’t be serious. His collar suddenly feels as tight as a noose.

“Why me? Surely Dorothea would be better suited...” She’d made a whole career out of playing the noble crowd, she could easily whip Ferdinand back to heel. 

Edelgard gives a small laugh. “Hubert, if I could ask anyone else, I would. Ferdinand...is not well liked.”

“What makes you think he’ll be...amenable?” Hubert hears every whisper, but has never caught a single mention of Ferdinand’s proclivities. There were times Hubert had caught him mooning over Dorothea or Manuela to be sure, but he’d also heard Ferdinand rhapsodize Giovanni the Second, arguing with Dorothea that he was by far the superior operatic lover to Edvard Costa, in ways that showed he’d thought about the matter very carefully. 

None of that suggests a willingness to go to bed with Hubert, Hubert’s feelings notwithstanding.

“You have yet to fail at a task I set for you. I know the pair of you scratch at each other, but I’m sure you can manage to smooth the way for his return.”

Hubert gives a sigh that shakes his bones, but his lady is waiting for an answer.

“Very well.” He bows. At the very least this is probably the worst thing she’ll ever ask of him, best to get it over with now.

#

He fails at coming up with a pretext that wouldn’t leave him ill, so he settles for one that would at least be plausible. He approaches Ferdinand in the courtyard, near the gazebo where some careless fool has left a scattering of tea leaf packets and medicines.

Ferdinand looks vaguely distressed, but holds his ground. Good. They could both be uncomfortable.

“Ferdinand. I require your assistance.” Saints, just the words make him feel green. Ferdinand tilts his chin, a weak attempt to mask his surprise.

“Oh? I have no doubt I can do whatever is required, but...” His words trail off at Hubert’s clenched teeth.

“Professor Hanneman has suggested I spend time focusing on my lance skills, as in a long battle a mage may draw to the limit of his magic before the fighting is done. With your recent defection...”

Ferdinand’s nose twitches at the tone. 

“I lack a suitable training partner.” There. An admission of weakness, a chance for von Aegir to show off, a hint that this is something not even Lady Edelgard can aid him in. A fucking delicious piece of bait.

And Ferdinand, simple brat that he is, snaps at it. His chest practically puffs.

“Of course, Hubert! I should have realized that my absence would cause problems, I certainly wish you no ill will. Shall we spar after classes?” 

Hubert tries to make his smile charming, but by the conflicted strain on Ferdinand’s face it seems “sinister” is still the best he’s got. 

“I would be delighted.”

#

The plan had been good, but as another blow knocks Hubert flat on his back, breath leaving in a pained rush and head ringing even on the soft sand of the sparring ring, he realizes it was not without flaws. 

Ferdinand offers a sweat-slick palm to help him back to his feet. “I see we have moved on prematurely. Tomorrow we shall go back to the training dummies and work on your stability. Might I suggest core work in your spare time? It seems magic does not require even a modicum of it.”

Hubert starts to bite a response, but Ferdinand lifts his shirt to wipe at errant drops of sweat, and the words die in a dry mouth. Ferdinand is not exceptionally broad, but the toned planes of his stomach, honed from riding and lance and probably plenty of that blasted core work, speak to developing strength. 

You’re going to touch that, his mind helpfully supplies, and he chokes. 

“Hubert!” Ferdinand is immediately there with water. “You also should drink, saints, it is like you have never done a day of physical training in your life. No matter. With Ferdinand von Aegir as your tutor, soon you shall be able to hold your own in any lance battalion!” 

Hubert hated Ferdinand when they would bicker. This cheerfully arrogant condescension is infinitely more loathsome.

“I have no desire to join a lance battalion, merely to develop rudimentary skills.” 

“And that shows a terrible lack of imagination. No bother. I will see you tomorrow at the same time, yes?”

He wants to say no. Instead he closes his eyes. When he says _Anything for Lady Edelgard_ , that includes...this. 

“Fine.”

#

Over the next days he collects more bruises than hits, though Ferdinand praises him- more condescending praise, as if Hubert were one of his dumb horses to be given pets simply for walking in the correct direction. He has been more successful in not snapping at the ginger-haired idiot, but that only has the effect of making him double down in annoyance. 

It’s much easier when Ferdinand is demonstrating, not speaking. Hubert can’t (and he has tried, desperately) deny that the noble brat has a certain aesthetic appeal. The perfect face, pouting lips, strong thighs...watching him decimate a training dummy with perfect precision is inspiring. He gives another strong thrust with a grunt that could be too much like something else and Hubert feels his face heat.

Ferdinand notices immediately, because of course he does. “Hubert! Are you well? You have flushed. Perhaps it is time for a break.” 

“No...” 

“Come now. I would suggest the sauna, but you look heated as is.”

That would be the worst idea possible. 

“Let me at least escort you to your room, then, to ensure your overexertion does not overcome you. I am afraid I have pushed you too hard, setting our training regimen to my own abilities as it were.”

Killing Ferdinand von Aegir would have the same effect of keeping empire secrets safe. He is sure he can make it up to Lady Edelgard. There are stairs between where they are now and the dorms, it would be brilliantly easy to push the other man down them and let his body be found as an accident. 

It’s such a lovely fantasy that he misses the fact that the room Ferdinand has guided him to is Ferdinand’s own. 

”I am aware that you do not often drink tea, but I have a blend that is particularly helpful for recovery after athletic endeavors.”

Hubert barely hears him, looking over the wreck that is theoretically a dorm room of equal size to Hubert’s own, yet feels much smaller with the pieces of armor strewn like body parts in the aftermath of battle, phantom legs and arms, and their textbooks lying dog-eared and cracked-spine on the floor. Ferdinand always looks impeccable in front of others, uniform nothing but pristine- indeed, his spare jacket is hung well above the metal and paper carnage. 

It is almost endearing, but when Hubert looks up, there is a flustered look and a hint of rose on Ferdinand’s face. No doubt he’s waiting for a comment about the paragon of nobility living in a pigsty, but as Hubert tilts his head to comment as such, his neck gives a wrenching crack and he gasps.

“I told you not to clench your jaw when you thrust, Hubert, you’re going to have a world of neck and shoulder pain for the next day or so. Here, sit, I do not trust you to brew this properly for yourself so I will do it for you.” He gestures towards his bed. Hubert’s own cheeks warm at that, but it is the one place that seems relatively unscathed. He sits, putting as little of his ass on the mattress as possible, watching Ferdinand use a small fire plate that soon has mint wafting in the air, and he wrinkles his nose. It smells like the infirmary, minus the alcohol and perfume.

“What’s in it?”

“Peppermint to relax the muscles, nettle for the blood. I assure you it is not as dreadful as it sounds.” The hot water steams in the air, and there is a soothing swish as Ferdinand pours a cup. He holds it out as stiffly if it were poison. “Go on.”

Hubert takes it without thanks; he’ll save the thanks for if it doesn’t kill him. Ferdinand stands next to him with his arms crossed, chest inflated, as if daring Hubert to make light of his noble charity. 

This is going to be Hubert’s best chance to complete his mission; already in Ferdinand’s room, in Ferdinand’s _bed_ , getting along well enough all things considered. The thought has his stomach in a flip, and he takes a quick sip of the tea- luckily peppermint soothes nausea. 

He should have asked Dorothea how one went about carnal pursuits, or borrowed one of Bernadetta’s novels. Anything that could get him from this, mere inches apart, one of them on the bed, and yet a thousand kilometers from any act that (he was fairly sure) he understood the mechanics of. 

“You look ill, Hubert. Is the pain so great?” Ferdinand bends to remove his riding boots, offering a view that is at least inspiring to the task at hand. “As I accept part of the blame, though part is undoubtedly from your lack of _listening_ , allow me to help.” And then he is on his knees behind Hubert, hands on his shoulders. 

Close to his neck. 

Did he, in his idiotic fugue, set himself up to be murdered by Ferdinand von Aegir?

He drops the tea and spins, pinning von Aegir beneath him, a hand on each of the younger man’s wrists. “What do you mean to do to me? What was really in that tea?” Does Dimitri, or more likely the professor, know more than he lets on about Edelgard’s plan? Is that why Ferdinand has lured him here, offered Hubert a beverage (that he didn’t even check, stupid, careless), and set hands upon him?

Ferdinand should be white with fear beneath him; instead, his skin now matches his hair and the amber of his eyes goes liquid dark. 

He’s gone quiet, which makes their echoing breaths too loud, Hubert’s thoughts too loud.

He can tell now that he’s miscalculated, and that the only way to salvage his pride is to take the opportunity.

You have yet to fail at a task, he thinks by way of excuse as he leans forward to push his lips against Ferdinand’s. Ferdinand freezes under him, shocked still and silent, and for a moment Hubert knows absolute peace. 

It lasts about two seconds, and then Ferdinand opens his mouth...but not to speak. He softens, lips parted, a hand coming up to link in Hubert’s sweaty hair, his other gripping his shirt in a tight fist as if afraid that without a tether Hubert will leave.

Kissing is a strange sensation, Hubert reflects, wet and too warm, a sloppy dribble of saliva now trailing from the corner of his mouth. Far nicer is the way Ferdinand squirms underneath him, pinned by Hubert’s knees framing his hips, whimpering into Hubert’s open mouth.

The reactions are too honest, too raw, too clearly the responses of a body that’s never been touched. _He’s never done this before, either,_ Hubert thinks, dropping a rare prayer of thanks. He would never be able to get it up for a Ferdinand “let me tell you everything I know about sex and how I’m good at it” von Aegir. 

He should probably say something (is that how it goes? Is it like battle, with a formal declaration of intent to rail someone?) but now Ferdinand is pushing back, pushing Hubert over and climbing on top of him, brushing back his long bangs in a gesture of wholly superfluous tenderness. The clear view of Ferdinand, cheeks flush and lips bitten, however, is rather nice, and his hand rides up the toned muscles of Ferdinand’s back as the other man makes busy unfastening his uniform. 

“Is this alright?” Ferdinand asks as cool air brushes Hubert’s now-naked chest, his nipples peaking under the chill and Ferdinand’s gaze. He can only manage a nod before Ferdinand is kissing down his torso, and his whole body shudders as a pink tongue passes over a hard nipple, adding wet to the sensations. He groans as the pressure of Ferdinand’s lips goes straight to his cock- if someone had asked how he planned to end his day, “with Ferdinand von Aegir sucking my tits” would not have been on the list, but the addled part of his brain now insists it is the only thing on the list from here on out.

He manages to divest Ferdinand of his jacket and undershirt with only minimal damage- there’s a ping as a button hits a piece of armor somewhere, nothing that needs attention now. Nothing that could possibly command his attention away from Ferdinand’s freckled chest, darker nipples begging to be pinched and toyed with. 

There were probably techniques to this, he thinks as he brushes a thumb over one of the peaks and gets a loud whine in response. They seem to be reading from the same playbook of touch everything, as fast as possible, and it’s not elegant but it works. Hubert has never been so hard, and Ferdinand, now down to his small clothes, is panting against him, firm and leaking. And impatient. It is Ferdinand who tugs down Hubert’s pants and underclothes to free his cock and put his hot palm on it as Hubert bucks, half from dizzy pleasure, half from the tangle of pants now around his calves. 

It feels nothing like touching himself. Ferdinand’s grip is too tight in some strokes, too loose in others, but the unpredictability is a whole other layer and he can’t make his tongue work; all the saliva they’d worked up kissing has gone dry. He grabs Ferdinand by the hair and pulls him down into another kiss (Ferdinand’s cock jumps at the rough treatment, something to analyze another day, with a clearer head), letting the other man’s tongue coat his as he humps against him, Hubert’s free hand pressing fingerprints into his delicious ass.

“Let me...” Ferdinand pulls back and whispers, and when he moves away Hubert is struck by the fear that for once in his stupid life Ferdinand von Aegir has been hit by a bolt of reason and will not let Hubert continue grinding on him to completion, and thus Hubert will simply have to murder Ferdinand for real but with a much less convenient explanation than a fall down the stairs. 

But Ferdinand is quickly back completely nude, a small bottle in hand. He crawls back on top of Hubert, and Hubert can’t bite back the groan as they are fully skin to skin, sticking together with sweat and the oil Ferdinand is drizzling over them. The scent takes him back to not an hour ago, watching Ferdinand handle a very different lance.

“Is that...” Hubert manages as Ferdinand’s slick hand glides over the head of his cock and he is very nearly done right then, “your weapons oil?” 

“Shut up,” is the confirmation he gets as Ferdinand pushes their cock’s together, and Hubert brings his larger hand to work them together, vision growing fuzzy as he nears the edge. He is really going to do this. He is really going to come on Ferdinand von Aegir...

“Hubert,” Ferdinand gasps as they move against each other. “You...you can. If you want to.”

“Can what?” or something like that leaves his lips, he’s not entirely sure, new parts of his brain are firing more sensation than he’s experienced in his last twenty years of existence. But Ferdinand shifts, angling his hips and spreading his legs wider, and though Hubert appreciates the offer as soon as his brain processes the image he’s coming, spilling through his fingers and onto Ferdinand’s cock, dribbling into the dark hair on his stomach as he contracts and gasps. Ferdinand falls forward and joins him, whimpering nonsense against Hubert’s neck as he adds to the mess with a twitching cock and his own spend. 

They lay for a moment, and Ferdinand’s heart is pounding so hard against him it might as well be beating in Hubert’s own chest. 

_Any affection you feel at the moment is a biological mechanism, it’s been studied._ The thought makes him feel better about running his hand thorough Ferdinand’s mussed hair, pressing a kiss to that sweaty forehead. There were simply hormones making him stupid, and it was easier to indulge them. It wasn’t like anyone would believe Ferdinand if he told them Hubert von Vestra was a post-coital cuddler.

“I should get a towel,” Ferdinand says, voice dazed, after his heart rate has slowed, though his legs are twined with Hubert’s in a way that will make such a task nigh impossible.

“How could you even find one in here? The garbage dump is better organized.” 

The offended snort draws Hubert back to reality, then there’s a hiss and muffled curse as Hubert watches Ferdinand shake his foot clean of the spilled tea he’s just stepped in. 

Funny, Hubert’s muscles feel much better now. 

#

Edelgard and Hubert watch Ferdinand depart the classroom, his letter of transference, neatly signed by Ferdinand with a barely legible scrawl from the professor, to the Black Eagles in Edelgard’s hand. 

“Well done, Hubert,” she praises, and he feels his cheeks heat as he bows. “What did you say to him? Something about how the only way to best me is to keep his rival close?” She taps the paper against her lips with an amused smile, and the wheels in Hubert’s brain turn. Click. Click.

“I merely did what you asked, Lady Edelgard.” 

“I know, I asked you to convince him to return, and you did, much more quickly than I would have guessed considering how stubborn Ferdinand is. Wait.” Her expression shifts, violet eyes narrowing. “You didn’t _threaten_ him, did you? I did notice he wouldn’t meet your eyes.”

Convince. She wanted him to _convince_ Ferdinand to come back. 

“Hubert?” Now Edelgard uses the paper as a fan, blowing the sweat suddenly dampening his forehead. “You look ill.”

“I...I simply require a moment.” Ferdinand can never know. Otherwise he’ll think that all _that_ was because Hubert _wanted him_ , and that...

That is true. He would have the stupid brat here on his knees right now if he could.

Hubert really is going to be sick.

“I’ve heard peppermint tea is good for the stomach?” Edelgard tries, but Hubert brushes past her in his rush to the bracing air of the courtyard, trying to bow as he does so to ease the sting of a rude exit.

“Apologies, my lady,” he manages, practically hearing her confusion at his back. “I’ve no taste for tea.”


End file.
